This is the last day of 2007. I felt it appropriate to take a brief look at all the significant stuff that happened to me over the year. Let's make a list!
- I broke up with my girlfriend of almost 4 years.
- I got myself a new job.
- I bought a new car.
- am now saddled with a loan. oh, joy.
- I had to move out of the house for a few months because my grandmother moved in, and she took up my room.
- I moved back in after she left.
- She proceeded to die a week ago.
- I effectively left my band due to various reasons.
- I got into a few new games(e.g. Heavy Gear) and temporarily lost interest in a few existing ones(Warhammer 40K).
- I read a lot more, bought more books.
- played a lot more World of Warcraft.
- started playing basketball again.
- had a few friendships cool off or die, for some very odd reasons that I still cannot fathom.
- made some new friends via basketball and World of Warcraft.
- an old friend who was living in Australia decided to return for good. yippee!
- got into Facebook. sigh. doomed.
- started blogging.
- computer died twice this year, taking all of my lovely data with it.
- bought an electric guitar. white elephant really.
- bought a second-hand ipod. truly awesome.
- bought a kick-ass jacket.
- bought a whole lot of CDs.
- got a credit card.
Right....so the list above doesn't look too good. Basically a series of unfortunate events, coupled with a lot of spending. I'm beginning to see how shopping therapy actually works. My verdict for this year: it sucked. It was mostly bad. I went through a series of minor depressions, realised that I don't really like my chosen career path, and have absolutely nothing to look forward to.
Here's to hoping the new year will be better, and not worse. Status quo would be quite horrible too.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
You can't take it with you anyway.
My last surviving grandparent passed away yesterday. She was 80-ish, I don't know the details. May God find a nice place for her soul, wherever she's bound for. I'm not particularly sad. She had a good, long life.
Anyway, what I really want to write about here is the tangent my mind went off after turning to concept of death and mortality over and over in my head after a while. Specifically, I was thinking about wills and inheritances. I can understand the rationale behind such things, I just don't agree with them. Barring some very specific circumstances, I cannot understand why families would bicker over who gets what when the patriarch/matriarch leaves this mortal coil.
Reasons range from a sense of entitlement and what is "proper and appropriate", to wondering who the geezer loved more based on who got more loot, to just just plain greed and avarice. Frankly, I find it all utter bullshit.
I don't like the idea of segmenting whatever wealth I have to any hypothetical progeny I may sire when I finally bite it. I figure that I would have raised them up to be independent and stable, they shouldn't need anything from me after they're all grown up. I don't want the family fracturing over something as trivial as inheritances. Therefore, I plan to blow most of whatever retirement money I may have or give it away to charity when my time finally comes. The kids would get a few sentimental mementos and personal effects. Perhaps a little money, for very specific uses like education and whatnot, but nothing else. "Assets" like the house and other baloney will be sold off, the proceeds donated to whatever cause strikes my fancy before I kick the bucket. The argument "but I want to make sure that my children are taken care of when I die" is highly condescending and insulting. Do you really think they are so worthless that they would not be able to pull through life without your post-mortem assistance? And if they are....well who cares, you're already dead. They are no longer your problem.
Likewise, I have no problems if my parents decide to do the same thing, or give everything to my sisters and me nothing at all. It's their stuff, they get to choose what they want to do with it. I don't need their material wealth to make me happy. Fighting over any sort of inheritance is stupid, and the blame for any negative effects should be equally shared between the deceased and the squabbling siblings and God knows what other parties decide to lay claim to the booty.
Anyway, what I really want to write about here is the tangent my mind went off after turning to concept of death and mortality over and over in my head after a while. Specifically, I was thinking about wills and inheritances. I can understand the rationale behind such things, I just don't agree with them. Barring some very specific circumstances, I cannot understand why families would bicker over who gets what when the patriarch/matriarch leaves this mortal coil.
Reasons range from a sense of entitlement and what is "proper and appropriate", to wondering who the geezer loved more based on who got more loot, to just just plain greed and avarice. Frankly, I find it all utter bullshit.
I don't like the idea of segmenting whatever wealth I have to any hypothetical progeny I may sire when I finally bite it. I figure that I would have raised them up to be independent and stable, they shouldn't need anything from me after they're all grown up. I don't want the family fracturing over something as trivial as inheritances. Therefore, I plan to blow most of whatever retirement money I may have or give it away to charity when my time finally comes. The kids would get a few sentimental mementos and personal effects. Perhaps a little money, for very specific uses like education and whatnot, but nothing else. "Assets" like the house and other baloney will be sold off, the proceeds donated to whatever cause strikes my fancy before I kick the bucket. The argument "but I want to make sure that my children are taken care of when I die" is highly condescending and insulting. Do you really think they are so worthless that they would not be able to pull through life without your post-mortem assistance? And if they are....well who cares, you're already dead. They are no longer your problem.
Likewise, I have no problems if my parents decide to do the same thing, or give everything to my sisters and me nothing at all. It's their stuff, they get to choose what they want to do with it. I don't need their material wealth to make me happy. Fighting over any sort of inheritance is stupid, and the blame for any negative effects should be equally shared between the deceased and the squabbling siblings and God knows what other parties decide to lay claim to the booty.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Your subconscious opinion on certain things.
Specifically, what home is, or was. "Oh bother, ANOTHER dream-based topic." I can hear the groans already.
As usual, I can't remember the specifics of my dream. All I can recall is that I was leaving home, and I didn't want to, but I had no choice. I was going around the place, shutting windows and closing doors and covering stuff with dust protectors (I know! So unlike me!) and sighing and feeling vaguely angry and yet powerless to stop the unseen power forcing me to leave my humble abode.
The interesting thing here is that, the message driven was that I was leaving home, but it wasn't my CURRENT home. The home in my dream was an old apartment that we moved out of some time in 1998. I can still remember its details clearly, and come to think of it, whenever I dream of the concept of home, that's the place that pops up. I suppose the place where you spent the majority of your rational childhood is the one which your subconscious mind will forever call home. It need not be a particularly happy place, or a safe one (There was a death in the opposite house...hahaha). As long as it is constant, and familiar.
This growing up thing sucks. I want to go back to a time when I had less concerns, less worries, less heartache and pain. I want to return to the state where I did not have any dreams or ambitions apart from doing well in all those silly annual school examinations. I want to revert to a time of utter irresponsibility, where my mistakes did not directly affect someone else's livelihood.
I want to go home. The home in my memories.
P.S.: I am the king of tangents.
As usual, I can't remember the specifics of my dream. All I can recall is that I was leaving home, and I didn't want to, but I had no choice. I was going around the place, shutting windows and closing doors and covering stuff with dust protectors (I know! So unlike me!) and sighing and feeling vaguely angry and yet powerless to stop the unseen power forcing me to leave my humble abode.
The interesting thing here is that, the message driven was that I was leaving home, but it wasn't my CURRENT home. The home in my dream was an old apartment that we moved out of some time in 1998. I can still remember its details clearly, and come to think of it, whenever I dream of the concept of home, that's the place that pops up. I suppose the place where you spent the majority of your rational childhood is the one which your subconscious mind will forever call home. It need not be a particularly happy place, or a safe one (There was a death in the opposite house...hahaha). As long as it is constant, and familiar.
This growing up thing sucks. I want to go back to a time when I had less concerns, less worries, less heartache and pain. I want to return to the state where I did not have any dreams or ambitions apart from doing well in all those silly annual school examinations. I want to revert to a time of utter irresponsibility, where my mistakes did not directly affect someone else's livelihood.
I want to go home. The home in my memories.
P.S.: I am the king of tangents.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
I wish I could remember my dreams.
I woke up this morning with the rapidly vanishing hint of a dream on the tip of my mind's tongue. I froze and tried my very best to remember what it was all about, but failed to garner any useful details. As I sit here typing this, all I can remember of it was that it had the heady rush of new love and an old VW van in it. I mean, new romance and an old hippie van in the same dream? It must have been really something.
This can be really frustrating for me. I don't dream a whole lot, but when I do, I get a sense that there's probably some kind of genius storyteller deep within my subconscious. It comes up with all sorts of impossible and entertaining situations where I am usually the star of the whole thing, kind of like bad fan fiction. The best part is that it seems to be fully grounded in the whole 'alternative universe' theme, where everything still follows the laws of gravity and physics and yet is completely impossible for me to replicate in real life. But it could have happened that way. Somehow.
I have thought about keeping a dream diary, but honestly, I cannot fathom myself furiously scribbling into a spiral-bound notepad upon awakening. I'm more likely to stare at you blankly for a few seconds before lurching over the bedrails and shuffling to the kitchen to get a glass of water. This body was not made for instant action.
From my hazy recollection (and probably imagination) of what dreams I have had, there are never any action-filled scenes and explosions. All I get are hints of possibly strong emotions and drama going on. People speak directly into my mind instead of moving their lips, and I already know what's going to happen but am unable to do anything about it as my avatar in the dream acts out his role flawlessly in a story that has me gripping the edge of my ethereal seat.
I have read opinions which surmise that dreams are basically fragments of feelings and memories that the mind drags up and manipulates for its own amusement and play, while the body rests. It does not necessarily reflect inner feelings or the subconscious mind itself. I'm not sure how accurate this is, so I'll be ignorant and think that this is probably partly true, but that the parts of you that you repress in your waking hours for whatever reason also surfaces at this time. This is why I can empathise with the actor playing me in my dreams, but it's not something that I can repeat in real life.
I am glad that dreams are only dreams. But there are some times that I wish fervently for them to come true, even if all I can remember of them is the lingering sense of some deep-seated emotion and a familiar face or two.
I'm not making sense, I know.
This can be really frustrating for me. I don't dream a whole lot, but when I do, I get a sense that there's probably some kind of genius storyteller deep within my subconscious. It comes up with all sorts of impossible and entertaining situations where I am usually the star of the whole thing, kind of like bad fan fiction. The best part is that it seems to be fully grounded in the whole 'alternative universe' theme, where everything still follows the laws of gravity and physics and yet is completely impossible for me to replicate in real life. But it could have happened that way. Somehow.
I have thought about keeping a dream diary, but honestly, I cannot fathom myself furiously scribbling into a spiral-bound notepad upon awakening. I'm more likely to stare at you blankly for a few seconds before lurching over the bedrails and shuffling to the kitchen to get a glass of water. This body was not made for instant action.
From my hazy recollection (and probably imagination) of what dreams I have had, there are never any action-filled scenes and explosions. All I get are hints of possibly strong emotions and drama going on. People speak directly into my mind instead of moving their lips, and I already know what's going to happen but am unable to do anything about it as my avatar in the dream acts out his role flawlessly in a story that has me gripping the edge of my ethereal seat.
I have read opinions which surmise that dreams are basically fragments of feelings and memories that the mind drags up and manipulates for its own amusement and play, while the body rests. It does not necessarily reflect inner feelings or the subconscious mind itself. I'm not sure how accurate this is, so I'll be ignorant and think that this is probably partly true, but that the parts of you that you repress in your waking hours for whatever reason also surfaces at this time. This is why I can empathise with the actor playing me in my dreams, but it's not something that I can repeat in real life.
I am glad that dreams are only dreams. But there are some times that I wish fervently for them to come true, even if all I can remember of them is the lingering sense of some deep-seated emotion and a familiar face or two.
I'm not making sense, I know.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
I fear many things.
I fear the death of my parents. I am afraid of the day that I am unable to call on them, ask how they are doing, have dinner with them. I am afraid of not being able to tell them that I love them, that I care for them, that I am grateful for all they have done for me. I am terrified that I will not be able to gather the courage to ask them if they are proud of me before it is too late.
I fear the possibility of leading a solitary existence. I am afraid of going through life on my own. I cannot fathom not being able to talk about my insecurities and my worries with that special someone. I cannot imagine having no one to bear witness to my triumphs, my follies, through every step of life's journey. I find it painful to think that my concern and love for another is so worthless that it is unappreciated, discarded, goes unnoticed.
I fear that I am too blind to see my own character flaws. I fear that I am too selfish, or too critical, or judgemental, or too insensitive. I fear that I am too narrow-minded, or too proud, or too lazy. I am afraid that what I take for confidence is nothing more than an overly-inflated sense of self.
I fear that I may be fucking up my life with the way I view my career. I am afraid that my current goal of trying to be happy rather than rich is too unrealistic to sustain. I fear that the way I restrain my advances in order to maintain my sanity and freedom is nothing more than an excuse to be lazy and irresponsible.
I am afraid of living a life that bears no fruit. I am afraid that I will end up being just another parasite in society, that does not contribute in any sense, not even by having children who will end up being useful citizens. I am afraid of leaving this world without improving it in any meaningful way.
I fear diseases and disabilities. I do not wish to be a burden unto others.
I fear a loss of independence and freedom, no matter how it is brought about.
I fear death. I fear dying. I fear I will never be prepared for this eventuality.
I fear so many things that one wonders why I am not paralyzed by it. The answer is simple: I don't think about it. And yet the very act of not thinking about such things is what makes them so devastating when they finally manifest.
I fear the possibility of leading a solitary existence. I am afraid of going through life on my own. I cannot fathom not being able to talk about my insecurities and my worries with that special someone. I cannot imagine having no one to bear witness to my triumphs, my follies, through every step of life's journey. I find it painful to think that my concern and love for another is so worthless that it is unappreciated, discarded, goes unnoticed.
I fear that I am too blind to see my own character flaws. I fear that I am too selfish, or too critical, or judgemental, or too insensitive. I fear that I am too narrow-minded, or too proud, or too lazy. I am afraid that what I take for confidence is nothing more than an overly-inflated sense of self.
I fear that I may be fucking up my life with the way I view my career. I am afraid that my current goal of trying to be happy rather than rich is too unrealistic to sustain. I fear that the way I restrain my advances in order to maintain my sanity and freedom is nothing more than an excuse to be lazy and irresponsible.
I am afraid of living a life that bears no fruit. I am afraid that I will end up being just another parasite in society, that does not contribute in any sense, not even by having children who will end up being useful citizens. I am afraid of leaving this world without improving it in any meaningful way.
I fear diseases and disabilities. I do not wish to be a burden unto others.
I fear a loss of independence and freedom, no matter how it is brought about.
I fear death. I fear dying. I fear I will never be prepared for this eventuality.
I fear so many things that one wonders why I am not paralyzed by it. The answer is simple: I don't think about it. And yet the very act of not thinking about such things is what makes them so devastating when they finally manifest.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
I love this game.
So, I've just finished my second game of basketball in 3 years or so. My hamstrings and calves ache like hell, my back is sore, my shoulders and upper arms feel stretched beyond their intended stretching limits, and every step I take makes me want to curl up in a corner and die a quiet death. Even my non-existent ass hurts. In short, I feel great!
I am not what you would call a naturally athletic person. I have skinny arms/legs/everything, and really shitty stamina. The only sports in which I am interested in is basketball and pingpong, and never to the extent of watching such sports on the idiot box. I just want to play them.
Now, I am no expert in the game, even though I used to play it competitively at school level. I have no cool tricks and don't play to impress. What really drives me to play is the rush of adrenaline that floods my veins as I run around the court trying to score, making opportunities for a short pass or trying to rebound a shot. I feel super-alert; my senses feel heightened and refined. Things slow down and speed up dramatically. My body movements are efficient and exact, every limb is at the right place, at the right time. The fatigue and tension in my muscles seemingly disappear for a few seconds as I burst forward to intercept a pass, drive the ball closer to the hoop, pull a jump shot and watch as the ball swishes silently through the net. Okay, that happens rarely, I admit. But when it does, it's beautiful. All the muscles stiffening up, and skinned knees/elbows and resulting pain and fatigue the following day is always worth it. Always.
I am not what you would call a naturally athletic person. I have skinny arms/legs/everything, and really shitty stamina. The only sports in which I am interested in is basketball and pingpong, and never to the extent of watching such sports on the idiot box. I just want to play them.
Now, I am no expert in the game, even though I used to play it competitively at school level. I have no cool tricks and don't play to impress. What really drives me to play is the rush of adrenaline that floods my veins as I run around the court trying to score, making opportunities for a short pass or trying to rebound a shot. I feel super-alert; my senses feel heightened and refined. Things slow down and speed up dramatically. My body movements are efficient and exact, every limb is at the right place, at the right time. The fatigue and tension in my muscles seemingly disappear for a few seconds as I burst forward to intercept a pass, drive the ball closer to the hoop, pull a jump shot and watch as the ball swishes silently through the net. Okay, that happens rarely, I admit. But when it does, it's beautiful. All the muscles stiffening up, and skinned knees/elbows and resulting pain and fatigue the following day is always worth it. Always.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Is the answer really 42?
So I've watched the movie adaptation of The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. I've never heard the original radio version no read the book, so I can't say whether the following was an addendum by the film's writers or if it really is part of the original thing.
Near the end of the story, the protagonist is pressed for the Question to the Ultimate Answer. His response?
Is she the one?
Now, I'm not going to speculate on how other people think, and besides, this thing is all about me and why I am great. Therefore, in my not-very-humble opinion, this really is one of the greatest puzzlers pertinent to my life. It is a question that elicits all sorts of emotional responses, ranging from nervousness to worry to hopeful optimism to barely-contained frustration.
Is she the one?
How does one know the answer to that question? The obvious way is to go ahead and ask her out and find out from there. But what if you can't even get your foot through the door, a.k.a. get shot down? You ask yourself the question again, because if the answer is no, then you give up and go do something else. If its yes, then you keep trying and trying until you succeed or she hates your very guts because you won't take no for an answer.
Is she the one?
Assuming you got your foot through the door (you lucky dog you!), how much time does it take before you can answer the question completely and confidently? How many fights, how much grief must you both go through before you would dare give that question a resounding 'NO' for an answer? Give it too soon, and you may be jumping the gun. You may be making the biggest mistake of your life by giving up too soon, by not having the tolerance required to achieve happiness, by not cherishing what you already have and instead trying constantly for what you could have. On the other hand, taking too long to answer 'no' would result in a lot of pain for very little gain, and lost time.
And if you want to answer 'yes', conversely, wouldn't saying it too early simply up the chances that you may eat your own words later on? And even worse...what if that answer comes to you too late? When it's all over, and words have been said that cannot be taken back, and the damage is done...and you stand alone in the aftermath, and in the ashes of your relationship, it hits you that you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. And that the answer to that question was actually a simple, quiet 'yes'.
This question implies that there is a perfect someone for everyone. Or in the very least, someone with the highest compatibility rating. So, would you settle for less and build up from there? Or do you try to find the best fit and start from theoretically solid ground? Hence, is she the one?
I hate this question.
This is a stupid entry.
Near the end of the story, the protagonist is pressed for the Question to the Ultimate Answer. His response?
Is she the one?
Now, I'm not going to speculate on how other people think, and besides, this thing is all about me and why I am great. Therefore, in my not-very-humble opinion, this really is one of the greatest puzzlers pertinent to my life. It is a question that elicits all sorts of emotional responses, ranging from nervousness to worry to hopeful optimism to barely-contained frustration.
Is she the one?
How does one know the answer to that question? The obvious way is to go ahead and ask her out and find out from there. But what if you can't even get your foot through the door, a.k.a. get shot down? You ask yourself the question again, because if the answer is no, then you give up and go do something else. If its yes, then you keep trying and trying until you succeed or she hates your very guts because you won't take no for an answer.
Is she the one?
Assuming you got your foot through the door (you lucky dog you!), how much time does it take before you can answer the question completely and confidently? How many fights, how much grief must you both go through before you would dare give that question a resounding 'NO' for an answer? Give it too soon, and you may be jumping the gun. You may be making the biggest mistake of your life by giving up too soon, by not having the tolerance required to achieve happiness, by not cherishing what you already have and instead trying constantly for what you could have. On the other hand, taking too long to answer 'no' would result in a lot of pain for very little gain, and lost time.
And if you want to answer 'yes', conversely, wouldn't saying it too early simply up the chances that you may eat your own words later on? And even worse...what if that answer comes to you too late? When it's all over, and words have been said that cannot be taken back, and the damage is done...and you stand alone in the aftermath, and in the ashes of your relationship, it hits you that you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. And that the answer to that question was actually a simple, quiet 'yes'.
This question implies that there is a perfect someone for everyone. Or in the very least, someone with the highest compatibility rating. So, would you settle for less and build up from there? Or do you try to find the best fit and start from theoretically solid ground? Hence, is she the one?
I hate this question.
This is a stupid entry.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Hair-flipping and its terrible consequences.
Most women with shoulder-length or longer hair will flip it from time to time. I am using this term in its most general sense. I take it to mean anything from brushing strands out of their eyes to a full flip after putting on a jacket. I have studied this curious action for quite some time now, and the reasons are many and varied. Some of them are:
- to remove visual obstruction
- to stop the jacket or some other article of clothing from pinning the hair down
- to brush away hairs that are sticking to one's neck or face
- out of habit
One unintentional effect of hair-flipping is to make me fall in love with you. I don't know why it is so, it just is. When a woman flips her hair, the whole scene goes into bullet-time for me. Her fingers seem to run effortlessly through the shining, unique strands. A breeze appears out of nowhere and gently sculpts the delicate waves of shimmering silk into a vision of glory. In short, it looks exactly like a television commercial for some hair product. I am devastated and floored by such a fleeting, yet wondrous display of femininity.
So if you are one of those who is in the habit of flipping your hair, don't blame me if I develop a crush on you.
- to remove visual obstruction
- to stop the jacket or some other article of clothing from pinning the hair down
- to brush away hairs that are sticking to one's neck or face
- out of habit
One unintentional effect of hair-flipping is to make me fall in love with you. I don't know why it is so, it just is. When a woman flips her hair, the whole scene goes into bullet-time for me. Her fingers seem to run effortlessly through the shining, unique strands. A breeze appears out of nowhere and gently sculpts the delicate waves of shimmering silk into a vision of glory. In short, it looks exactly like a television commercial for some hair product. I am devastated and floored by such a fleeting, yet wondrous display of femininity.
So if you are one of those who is in the habit of flipping your hair, don't blame me if I develop a crush on you.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
I need my sleep, you goddamn dictator. Go AWAY.
One idiosyncrasy I have is that I prefer absolute silence for the first 20 minutes upon awakening. This only applies in the morning, not for afternoon naps and whatnot. During this time period, I do not wish to hear pots and pans clashing and smashing in the kitchen, no noisy engine start-ups, and most importantly, no TALKING. It gets my dander up when someone dares utter words in my direction or tries to engage me in pointless conversation so early in the morning. I mean, come on, I've just been dragged out of blissful sleep into this dark, uncaring universe against my will. Give me time to grouch and reset my initial discontent at the world, please.
Which brings me to the true point of this post: my dad has retired and he's driving me mad. Ever since he stopped working a few days ago, he has been on my nerves and set everyone else' teeth on edge. He wakes up real early in the morning and seems to take offense that some of us like to wake up when it is 2 hours or so away from noon. So he goes about the house banging and clashing and moving furniture about. Even worse, he starts up the vacuum cleaner. Oh, how I hate him for that. He takes the accursed thing and vacuums just outside my fucking door.
Also, I have some flexibility in my work in that I can go in 30 minutes late and no one would bat an eyelid. Except my father. He sticks his head through my door and wakes me up and asks if I'm skipping work today, 1 hour before my allotted wake-up time.
I'm going crazy here. Someone save me from my father.
Which brings me to the true point of this post: my dad has retired and he's driving me mad. Ever since he stopped working a few days ago, he has been on my nerves and set everyone else' teeth on edge. He wakes up real early in the morning and seems to take offense that some of us like to wake up when it is 2 hours or so away from noon. So he goes about the house banging and clashing and moving furniture about. Even worse, he starts up the vacuum cleaner. Oh, how I hate him for that. He takes the accursed thing and vacuums just outside my fucking door.
Also, I have some flexibility in my work in that I can go in 30 minutes late and no one would bat an eyelid. Except my father. He sticks his head through my door and wakes me up and asks if I'm skipping work today, 1 hour before my allotted wake-up time.
I'm going crazy here. Someone save me from my father.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
I wish I was cycling instead.
I've not hopped on my creaking mountain bike and pedalled around the neighbourhood in years. I blame this partly on work, but mostly on my own laziness and a shift in priorities. But on slow work days, it seems like a really good idea.
I used to cycle a lot when I was younger, primary school age. I'd grab the bike and carry it down 4 flights of stairs (we used to live in a rundown apartment unit) and cycle all over the place. I'd weave in and out of little lanes and backalleys, ride across fields and even once, rode all over a construction yard. This was illegal of course, but it was after work hours and there was no one to annoy me.
I had a few biking friends, although I can no longer properly recall their names, and I won't embarass myself by trying to get them right here. We'd roam all over our neighbourhood with no real objective, wandering around aimlessly. The fun came from the journey, not the destination. We loved the feel of the wind in our hair, the stupid and pointless conversations, the impromptu races, the personal challenges (like daring one another to climb steps and jump over drains), and the sheer mindlessness of it all. Sometimes we had little accidents, and then the whole thing ended with the bunch of us helping the wounded dude back home, wheeling the bike along while someone else helped propped the poor victim up.
Then there was the urge to modify your bike. Now that I think about it, it was kind of like 'pimping our rides'. They'd have stuff like longer wheel forks, metal foot pedals, fore and aft suspensions, lights, and I'm not too sure what else. I was too poor for those things, so I had to be content with a set of neon yellow mudguards (ooh! bright and shiny!), which never seemed to actually work anyway. I still got mud sprayed onto the back of my shirt of wet days. Although, if you realised that the REAL function of those gaudy things were to attract attention...
After my family moved to a new place, I cycled around my new neighbourhood mostly to explore the place. I was still in boarding school then, so I felt it was important for me to catch up on geographical data that I sorely lacked about my new home whenever I came back for the holidays. I'd cycle all over, finding little pockets of shops, houses with exotic cars parked in them, small parks and gardens, big beautiful houses lavishly landscaped, houses with cute dogs. Of course, the occasional accidents still happened here, like the time I cycled straight into a low tree branch, but this time I mostly cycled alone so there was no one to either laugh at my predicament or help me get home. I'd traded companionship for freedom of direction during these later cycling excursions.
Alright, that last sentence just sent me on a tangent, and I need to record it before it blows away. Trading companionship for freedom. Is this a good trade? Is it worth it to go through life alone as long as you retain (more or less) absolute control of your life's direction? Is it worth it to link your fate inextricably to another's and face the possibility of not fulfilling your dreams due to values like "responsibility" and "honour" and "sacrifice"? Is it alright to put aside your selfish and wants and desires for the comfort and security that comes with having a special someone share your life? Would you trade your greatest ambition for the chance to share your smaller successes with the one you love? This sounds like something that deserves its own entry, so I'll leave it at that for now.
My free time these days are spent on "sophisticated" pursuits, like going out with friends, doing the MMORPG thing, going out for drinks (non-alcoholic - I can't hold my liquor), and playing all sorts of complex games. I just can't bring myself to drop those things for an evening just to grab the old bike, shift to low gear and ride up a hill just to coast down it again. To feel my muscles strain against gravity. To feel the blood pounding in my head. To feel the wind rushing past my face. To think about nothing apart from whether I should make a left turn here or go straight on down the road. Just for the heck of it.
I used to cycle a lot when I was younger, primary school age. I'd grab the bike and carry it down 4 flights of stairs (we used to live in a rundown apartment unit) and cycle all over the place. I'd weave in and out of little lanes and backalleys, ride across fields and even once, rode all over a construction yard. This was illegal of course, but it was after work hours and there was no one to annoy me.
I had a few biking friends, although I can no longer properly recall their names, and I won't embarass myself by trying to get them right here. We'd roam all over our neighbourhood with no real objective, wandering around aimlessly. The fun came from the journey, not the destination. We loved the feel of the wind in our hair, the stupid and pointless conversations, the impromptu races, the personal challenges (like daring one another to climb steps and jump over drains), and the sheer mindlessness of it all. Sometimes we had little accidents, and then the whole thing ended with the bunch of us helping the wounded dude back home, wheeling the bike along while someone else helped propped the poor victim up.
Then there was the urge to modify your bike. Now that I think about it, it was kind of like 'pimping our rides'. They'd have stuff like longer wheel forks, metal foot pedals, fore and aft suspensions, lights, and I'm not too sure what else. I was too poor for those things, so I had to be content with a set of neon yellow mudguards (ooh! bright and shiny!), which never seemed to actually work anyway. I still got mud sprayed onto the back of my shirt of wet days. Although, if you realised that the REAL function of those gaudy things were to attract attention...
After my family moved to a new place, I cycled around my new neighbourhood mostly to explore the place. I was still in boarding school then, so I felt it was important for me to catch up on geographical data that I sorely lacked about my new home whenever I came back for the holidays. I'd cycle all over, finding little pockets of shops, houses with exotic cars parked in them, small parks and gardens, big beautiful houses lavishly landscaped, houses with cute dogs. Of course, the occasional accidents still happened here, like the time I cycled straight into a low tree branch, but this time I mostly cycled alone so there was no one to either laugh at my predicament or help me get home. I'd traded companionship for freedom of direction during these later cycling excursions.
Alright, that last sentence just sent me on a tangent, and I need to record it before it blows away. Trading companionship for freedom. Is this a good trade? Is it worth it to go through life alone as long as you retain (more or less) absolute control of your life's direction? Is it worth it to link your fate inextricably to another's and face the possibility of not fulfilling your dreams due to values like "responsibility" and "honour" and "sacrifice"? Is it alright to put aside your selfish and wants and desires for the comfort and security that comes with having a special someone share your life? Would you trade your greatest ambition for the chance to share your smaller successes with the one you love? This sounds like something that deserves its own entry, so I'll leave it at that for now.
My free time these days are spent on "sophisticated" pursuits, like going out with friends, doing the MMORPG thing, going out for drinks (non-alcoholic - I can't hold my liquor), and playing all sorts of complex games. I just can't bring myself to drop those things for an evening just to grab the old bike, shift to low gear and ride up a hill just to coast down it again. To feel my muscles strain against gravity. To feel the blood pounding in my head. To feel the wind rushing past my face. To think about nothing apart from whether I should make a left turn here or go straight on down the road. Just for the heck of it.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Why I like virtual violence.
Let me start by saying that I am not a fan of guns or bombs or tanks or wars or nuclear warheads. I am repelled by any sort of tool designed solely for the purpose of taking human lives. I cannot justify the reasoning behind the creation of such tools, whether in self-defense or as some sort social justice edict. It is wrong, plain and simple. It is no man's right to decide if a fellow human being lives or dies.
That said, man do I love first-person shooter games! I love the idea of moving around in a virtual environment and shooting virtual things and virtual people and watching them bleed virtual blood and die horrible (but virtual) bloody deaths. I love it that I can pump so many rounds of virtual shells per minute into a target with my virtual automatic shotgun with nary but a flick of my wrist and frantic left-clicking. I love the adrenaline rush that runs through me as a stalk pixel-based corridors and well-rendered hallways looking for my next kill while subsequently escaping the notice of my would-be hunters. I love it when my character somersaults towards her target with blinding speed and dismembers him with 2 smooth, quick strokes of her wrist blades. It's just so much fun!
I also find real-time strategy games to be particularly riveting. I've always been a tactical game nut, and ever since I played my first game of chess I knew I savoured the heady feeling that takes hold of you when you subjugate your opponent with the power of your mind alone. Usually I lack the micromanagement skills that is required to play such games very well, but I love them anyway.
The question here is, how does one who admits to hating and being afraid of real violence reconcile that with his love of imaginary violence? The issue of video-game violence is a hot topic in the United States, with the detractors stating that children who play such games have a higher tendency to emulate those games and commit real crimes outside. The supporters claim that the OVERWHELMING MAJORITY of people who play violent video-games do not get the urge to go out and shoot someone in real life. I'm sure you can see my bias in this case. I'll put in my two cents here just to make a stand and move on.
First, I think they're both right. Most people who play violent games don't commit violent crimes after that. I may not have the data at hand, but if you bother to look around the net a bit, you'll see what I mean. There's no study out there that draws direct correlation and causality to imply that violent video-games instigate violent behaviour in those who play them. On the other hand, younger children who play such games DO tend to emulate what they see and experience in such media. The vivid realism that is increasingly present in such games makes it even more difficult for this class of gamer to differentiate between what is acceptable and what is not in normal society.
What do we do then? Simple. Parents, DO YOUR JOB. If you have young kids who may not be mature enough to handle such games, don't let them play. I personally think children below 13 years of age shouldn't be playing video-games at all. In the case of older gamers who commit violent crimes, assuming they are not mentally unstable or suffer from other emotional and psychological disorders, rest assured, the question of whether they play such games or not does not factor in. They are just as likely to commit those crimes with or without the subliminal and devil-worship prompting of violent games. Most of us know that hurting someone intentionally is not only wrong in the eyes of the law, it is also morally abhorrent. If you don't, then someone has been highly negligent in explaining to you why it is wrong to shoot someone else with your father's pea-shooter. Also, go away.
I see this is turning into a rant. Time to stop the digression train.
Anyway, I've thought about the reason behind my attraction to such games. Being someone who cannot bring himself to injure or cause any kind of physical pain to a fellow human being (I can't even pinch someone. Sorry.), it is interesting to note that I readily look forward to ripping huge holes in virtual avatars. Do I have some kind of secret violent streak, that can only be expressed safely through playing such games? Maybe. Do I feel the need to unleash the short, violent and primal instinct to cause bodily harm and destroy public property when I feel threatened or angry? Perhaps. Or what if this is my way of rebelling against my puny physical stature, to express the frustration of being physically intimidated in real life? Highly possible.
While I do not deny that the reasons given above probably contribute in some minor way, I think I have found the real reason I like such games: I crave competition. To this end, violent video-games are merely a subset of the myriad things I like to do to test myself against others. I like basketball and ping-pong. I like chess and Scrabble. I like miniature tabletop wargames. And I like multiplayer computer games, including violent ones.
I've noted that puzzles like Sudoku do not interest me at all, mostly because of its solitaire nature. In fact, puzzles and games that do not pit me against another living, breathing human being fails to attract my attention most of the time. It is the excitement i derive from striving against the will and skills of another and beating them that compels me to play these games. In short, I love winning. I don't mind losing many, many times, as long as I retain the conviction that I will one day win, that one day I shall emerge triumphant and victorious, and bask in the warm glow of accomplishment and success.
Yes, I'm talking to you. There will come a time when I will BEAT YO ASS in Scrabble. Repeatedly. Count on it.
That said, man do I love first-person shooter games! I love the idea of moving around in a virtual environment and shooting virtual things and virtual people and watching them bleed virtual blood and die horrible (but virtual) bloody deaths. I love it that I can pump so many rounds of virtual shells per minute into a target with my virtual automatic shotgun with nary but a flick of my wrist and frantic left-clicking. I love the adrenaline rush that runs through me as a stalk pixel-based corridors and well-rendered hallways looking for my next kill while subsequently escaping the notice of my would-be hunters. I love it when my character somersaults towards her target with blinding speed and dismembers him with 2 smooth, quick strokes of her wrist blades. It's just so much fun!
I also find real-time strategy games to be particularly riveting. I've always been a tactical game nut, and ever since I played my first game of chess I knew I savoured the heady feeling that takes hold of you when you subjugate your opponent with the power of your mind alone. Usually I lack the micromanagement skills that is required to play such games very well, but I love them anyway.
The question here is, how does one who admits to hating and being afraid of real violence reconcile that with his love of imaginary violence? The issue of video-game violence is a hot topic in the United States, with the detractors stating that children who play such games have a higher tendency to emulate those games and commit real crimes outside. The supporters claim that the OVERWHELMING MAJORITY of people who play violent video-games do not get the urge to go out and shoot someone in real life. I'm sure you can see my bias in this case. I'll put in my two cents here just to make a stand and move on.
First, I think they're both right. Most people who play violent games don't commit violent crimes after that. I may not have the data at hand, but if you bother to look around the net a bit, you'll see what I mean. There's no study out there that draws direct correlation and causality to imply that violent video-games instigate violent behaviour in those who play them. On the other hand, younger children who play such games DO tend to emulate what they see and experience in such media. The vivid realism that is increasingly present in such games makes it even more difficult for this class of gamer to differentiate between what is acceptable and what is not in normal society.
What do we do then? Simple. Parents, DO YOUR JOB. If you have young kids who may not be mature enough to handle such games, don't let them play. I personally think children below 13 years of age shouldn't be playing video-games at all. In the case of older gamers who commit violent crimes, assuming they are not mentally unstable or suffer from other emotional and psychological disorders, rest assured, the question of whether they play such games or not does not factor in. They are just as likely to commit those crimes with or without the subliminal and devil-worship prompting of violent games. Most of us know that hurting someone intentionally is not only wrong in the eyes of the law, it is also morally abhorrent. If you don't, then someone has been highly negligent in explaining to you why it is wrong to shoot someone else with your father's pea-shooter. Also, go away.
I see this is turning into a rant. Time to stop the digression train.
Anyway, I've thought about the reason behind my attraction to such games. Being someone who cannot bring himself to injure or cause any kind of physical pain to a fellow human being (I can't even pinch someone. Sorry.), it is interesting to note that I readily look forward to ripping huge holes in virtual avatars. Do I have some kind of secret violent streak, that can only be expressed safely through playing such games? Maybe. Do I feel the need to unleash the short, violent and primal instinct to cause bodily harm and destroy public property when I feel threatened or angry? Perhaps. Or what if this is my way of rebelling against my puny physical stature, to express the frustration of being physically intimidated in real life? Highly possible.
While I do not deny that the reasons given above probably contribute in some minor way, I think I have found the real reason I like such games: I crave competition. To this end, violent video-games are merely a subset of the myriad things I like to do to test myself against others. I like basketball and ping-pong. I like chess and Scrabble. I like miniature tabletop wargames. And I like multiplayer computer games, including violent ones.
I've noted that puzzles like Sudoku do not interest me at all, mostly because of its solitaire nature. In fact, puzzles and games that do not pit me against another living, breathing human being fails to attract my attention most of the time. It is the excitement i derive from striving against the will and skills of another and beating them that compels me to play these games. In short, I love winning. I don't mind losing many, many times, as long as I retain the conviction that I will one day win, that one day I shall emerge triumphant and victorious, and bask in the warm glow of accomplishment and success.
Yes, I'm talking to you. There will come a time when I will BEAT YO ASS in Scrabble. Repeatedly. Count on it.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Take what you need, and be on your way.
Stop Crying Your Heart Out, by Oasis.
Apparently, it's a fairly old song, but one that I only recently found. When I first heard it, I was in my car stuck in a traffic jam, heading home. The first verse was fairly unremarkable that first time, and my mind went on to twiddle its imaginary thumbs until the song built up to the slow, grand chorus. And then I got hit by the tidal wave.
Certain songs speak to me on an emotional level so deep and stark, I lose focus in whatever it is that I'm doing at the moment, and just stop to listen to it. I have caught myself completely abandoning all pretense of paying attention to traffic conditions while driving just to listen, really listen to such songs. The fact that I am not yet dead or severely injured from such preoccupations speaks volumes of my autopilot capabilities (Ha!). The combination of the melody, lyrics and tempo of such songs is enough to send my mind hurtling through space and time, feelings of empathy flooding my neural pathways and shocking me with its stark, naked, all-too-real truth.
My mind freezes, I seem to take the song's message all in at once. I begin to develop feelings of euphoria and a sense of wonderment. I am blind and deaf to my surroundings. I ask myself, "Why didn't I see it this way before? It's all so damn obvious!", sometimes without even having a very clear picture of what is being sung about. Even worse, I my eyes well up with tears. In that state of mind, I wouldn't bat an eyelid if angels descended from the heavens in a lazy spiral, playing their lyres and singing sweet nonsensical hymns.
Anyway.
The song spoke to me of some grand, monumental failure, tragedy or disappointment on the part of the subject, and yet the singer still tries to instill some sense of hope that perhaps, the next attempt will succeed. So in the meantime, pick up the pieces of your life, do what you can to survive, because life goes on. And stop crying your heart out. You'll need it for later. Liam Gallagher's vocals are fantastic here, meshing wonderfully with the orchestra, a slow, grand, heart-wrenching chorus that rips reality away so gradually and completely. Or so it seems to me.
This is something that most of us will have gone through at least once in our lives (provided you're not some rich bastard/bitch who reeks of fermentation due to all the spoiling by your parents. If so, go away. I hate you.), the feeling of having your hopes dashed, your dreams shattered, your whole world swept out from under your feet. You're near rock bottom, and things look grim and hopeless, the world feels strangely distant and uncaring. Your friends don't understand. Your family shrugs it off. And all you have is yourself. So the singer comes to you like some friendly stranger who says," Yo. You're pretty screwed, I know. Feels like shit, doesn't it? I know. I've been there too. It feels like you'll never recover from it, damn the world to hell and back again. I'm hopeless. I'm destroyed. I'm nothing. It has finally come to pass, the world as I know it is gone, will never come back again. And yet, all I'm saying is, you can still pick yourself up. You can stand tall again. Not right away, of course, but in time. Have faith in yourself. Hold on. It'll get better, I promise."
Because when I'm completely busted up inside, when my self-confidence has crumbled to dust, when I have no self-esteem left...all I want is for someone to sit beside me and say that they empathise with what I'm going through. That they know what I feel like, even if they may not have gone through the same experience. And they have to be sincere when saying it. I don't need words of consolation, or solidarity or whatever. I don't need to be built up (although a little wouldn't hurt). What I want are the words, "I get it. I get you.".
That's what I want.
Apparently, it's a fairly old song, but one that I only recently found. When I first heard it, I was in my car stuck in a traffic jam, heading home. The first verse was fairly unremarkable that first time, and my mind went on to twiddle its imaginary thumbs until the song built up to the slow, grand chorus. And then I got hit by the tidal wave.
Certain songs speak to me on an emotional level so deep and stark, I lose focus in whatever it is that I'm doing at the moment, and just stop to listen to it. I have caught myself completely abandoning all pretense of paying attention to traffic conditions while driving just to listen, really listen to such songs. The fact that I am not yet dead or severely injured from such preoccupations speaks volumes of my autopilot capabilities (Ha!). The combination of the melody, lyrics and tempo of such songs is enough to send my mind hurtling through space and time, feelings of empathy flooding my neural pathways and shocking me with its stark, naked, all-too-real truth.
My mind freezes, I seem to take the song's message all in at once. I begin to develop feelings of euphoria and a sense of wonderment. I am blind and deaf to my surroundings. I ask myself, "Why didn't I see it this way before? It's all so damn obvious!", sometimes without even having a very clear picture of what is being sung about. Even worse, I my eyes well up with tears. In that state of mind, I wouldn't bat an eyelid if angels descended from the heavens in a lazy spiral, playing their lyres and singing sweet nonsensical hymns.
Anyway.
The song spoke to me of some grand, monumental failure, tragedy or disappointment on the part of the subject, and yet the singer still tries to instill some sense of hope that perhaps, the next attempt will succeed. So in the meantime, pick up the pieces of your life, do what you can to survive, because life goes on. And stop crying your heart out. You'll need it for later. Liam Gallagher's vocals are fantastic here, meshing wonderfully with the orchestra, a slow, grand, heart-wrenching chorus that rips reality away so gradually and completely. Or so it seems to me.
This is something that most of us will have gone through at least once in our lives (provided you're not some rich bastard/bitch who reeks of fermentation due to all the spoiling by your parents. If so, go away. I hate you.), the feeling of having your hopes dashed, your dreams shattered, your whole world swept out from under your feet. You're near rock bottom, and things look grim and hopeless, the world feels strangely distant and uncaring. Your friends don't understand. Your family shrugs it off. And all you have is yourself. So the singer comes to you like some friendly stranger who says," Yo. You're pretty screwed, I know. Feels like shit, doesn't it? I know. I've been there too. It feels like you'll never recover from it, damn the world to hell and back again. I'm hopeless. I'm destroyed. I'm nothing. It has finally come to pass, the world as I know it is gone, will never come back again. And yet, all I'm saying is, you can still pick yourself up. You can stand tall again. Not right away, of course, but in time. Have faith in yourself. Hold on. It'll get better, I promise."
Because when I'm completely busted up inside, when my self-confidence has crumbled to dust, when I have no self-esteem left...all I want is for someone to sit beside me and say that they empathise with what I'm going through. That they know what I feel like, even if they may not have gone through the same experience. And they have to be sincere when saying it. I don't need words of consolation, or solidarity or whatever. I don't need to be built up (although a little wouldn't hurt). What I want are the words, "I get it. I get you.".
That's what I want.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
'Looks like someone's got a case of the Mondays.'
I hate Mondays.
On second thought, I think that may be a little bit of an understatement.
I ABHOR Mondays. I am repelled by it. It symbolises the start of another cycle of self-inflicted agony, responsibility and deadlines. It reeks of hopelessness, claustrophobia and depression, a certainty that one will never escape the cycle of failed objectives for a long, long time.
I celebrate every Monday by projecting a semblance of misery, neglect and mourning. My hair is wild and uncombed, my eyes are black coffee rings left by some dumb fuck who doesn't use a coaster, my expression is one of utter dejection. I shamble my way to my desk and plop down onto my chair unceremoniously. My shoulders are hunched, I sigh a lot and my responses are just a touch slower than usual. I do not wear socks (thus increasing my own suffering as my toes turn blue from frostbite due to freakish central air-conditioning). I would wear sackcloth and rub ashes onto my forehead and moan throughout the day, but I like the prospect of unemployment even less.
On Monday, my inbox never fails to delight me with one of my boss's "insights" into how I can improve my productivity and teamwork skills. On Monday, multiple customers will call up with requests for "enhancements", whether viable or not, coupled with unrealistic deadlines. On Monday, my desire to curl up and fall asleep under my desk peaks at dangerous levels. On Monday, the spectre of deadlines and test schedules loom over my head like a dark cloud threatening hail and lightning. That strikes the same place repeatedly. Every 5 minutes. On Monday, Death beckons.
I understand that my condition isn't unique. I understand that I am not the only one who gets melancholic when Sunday night comes around, because we realise that there's work tomorrow. I understand that some people have it far more rough than I do, and may not even have a weekend to enjoy. But damn it, this is about me, and I really hate Mondays.
Fuck you, Monday. Fuck you. Just go and die somewhere else and leave me alone.
On second thought, I think that may be a little bit of an understatement.
I ABHOR Mondays. I am repelled by it. It symbolises the start of another cycle of self-inflicted agony, responsibility and deadlines. It reeks of hopelessness, claustrophobia and depression, a certainty that one will never escape the cycle of failed objectives for a long, long time.
I celebrate every Monday by projecting a semblance of misery, neglect and mourning. My hair is wild and uncombed, my eyes are black coffee rings left by some dumb fuck who doesn't use a coaster, my expression is one of utter dejection. I shamble my way to my desk and plop down onto my chair unceremoniously. My shoulders are hunched, I sigh a lot and my responses are just a touch slower than usual. I do not wear socks (thus increasing my own suffering as my toes turn blue from frostbite due to freakish central air-conditioning). I would wear sackcloth and rub ashes onto my forehead and moan throughout the day, but I like the prospect of unemployment even less.
On Monday, my inbox never fails to delight me with one of my boss's "insights" into how I can improve my productivity and teamwork skills. On Monday, multiple customers will call up with requests for "enhancements", whether viable or not, coupled with unrealistic deadlines. On Monday, my desire to curl up and fall asleep under my desk peaks at dangerous levels. On Monday, the spectre of deadlines and test schedules loom over my head like a dark cloud threatening hail and lightning. That strikes the same place repeatedly. Every 5 minutes. On Monday, Death beckons.
I understand that my condition isn't unique. I understand that I am not the only one who gets melancholic when Sunday night comes around, because we realise that there's work tomorrow. I understand that some people have it far more rough than I do, and may not even have a weekend to enjoy. But damn it, this is about me, and I really hate Mondays.
Fuck you, Monday. Fuck you. Just go and die somewhere else and leave me alone.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
The reason, or ,'What am I doing here?'
2 posts back-to-back! Oh, the horror, the agony, the HUMANITY.
Fret not, this isn't permanent. I just started this, and I have a bunch of things to work out, so maybe the next few posts will be coming in hard and fast. Figuratively speaking. I totally expect this bubbling brook of thoughts to peter out and eventually settle down to a more relaxed pace after the first 5 to 6 posts. Maybe 1 every fortnight. No promises.
So, let's list a few questions that I intend to answer here:
- why am I blogging in the first place?
- why does it have to be a blog? why not just a simple diary, online or hard copy?
- why is there a tear in my cargo pants, over my right thigh?
First question. Why am I blogging? This is probably due to an amalgamation of smaller reasons, which I will try to expound on as clearly as I can. Considering that I once felt (and publicly announced) that publishing your thoughts online for all the world to see will, WILL eventually come back to bite you in the ass, this is definitely a strange thing to do. Ye gods, you've rescinded your words! How will anyone every trust your lying tongue again??! Shut up, that which is my conscience.
So why would I contradict myself? That's easy. Because I am a fickle idiot. Also, from time to time it's really easy to convince myself of certain things (which has led me to much heartache, but that's for another time). And yesterday, I convinced myself that having an outlet to record my often weird, sometimes philosophical, usually rubbish thoughts would help me keep track of what I think about. What makes me, me.
I've always been kind of an oddball. My sense of humour changes and fluctuates by the day. I'm interested in stuff that would mortify the mainstream. I have beliefs that contradict the religion that I hold to, and yet am able to continue living with myself. My plans for the future whip and buck like an angry bull with a crazy cowboy dude trying to hold on to its back for 8 seconds. I can display moments of brilliance in one moment and act like a total ignorant redneck jerk the next. Therefore, I think by recording such thoughts and events that occur, there may be some hope of me perhaps seeing a pattern, a method to my madness if you will. I may be able to understand my personality, and perhaps even plan contingencies.
Second question. Why an online diary? Why allow persons of unknown motivations and behaviour, or (shudder) people I know get a glimpse of what I think about? Wouldn't that give them some kind of hold over you later on? Two main reasons, I think. The first would definitely be vanity. I like to entertain the thought that someone out there may be interested in what I think about or what I have to say. I'm pretty sure I'm completely deluding myself here, but the beauty of the delusion is that I can indulge in it without being shown concrete evidence that I am wrong.
The second reason is linked to the first one. Assuming that someone I know miraculously finds this, then congratulations! You've hit the mother lode. Now you have a rough idea of what goes through my mind when we are sitting around discussing battle tactics for war games, or when you're telling me about your latest squeeze, or when we're driving around to some location and I am uncharacteristically silent throughout the trip. This is my roundabout way of letting people know the stuff that goes through my head and understand me better. So that they can plan contingencies of their own when shit hits the fan. As they will, eventually. Trust me.
Third question. I think I have solved the mystery. Directly over the tear, I can see my pants' pocket lining. Inside that pocket, I keep my bunch of house keys. I surmise that years of hard-edged metal rubbing against cloth (sounds vaguely dirty, I know) while I walk about would eventually wear away the fibres of said cloth, resulting in it becoming threadbare over time and eventually turning into a rip. And since I have no mending skills whatsoever, and it IS a pretty comfortable pair of cargo pants, I'm just going to ignore the rip and pretend it was never there until someone points it out. Which no one has. I'm not sure if they don't out of politeness or that they are secretly laughing at me behind their backs.
Fret not, this isn't permanent. I just started this, and I have a bunch of things to work out, so maybe the next few posts will be coming in hard and fast. Figuratively speaking. I totally expect this bubbling brook of thoughts to peter out and eventually settle down to a more relaxed pace after the first 5 to 6 posts. Maybe 1 every fortnight. No promises.
So, let's list a few questions that I intend to answer here:
- why am I blogging in the first place?
- why does it have to be a blog? why not just a simple diary, online or hard copy?
- why is there a tear in my cargo pants, over my right thigh?
First question. Why am I blogging? This is probably due to an amalgamation of smaller reasons, which I will try to expound on as clearly as I can. Considering that I once felt (and publicly announced) that publishing your thoughts online for all the world to see will, WILL eventually come back to bite you in the ass, this is definitely a strange thing to do. Ye gods, you've rescinded your words! How will anyone every trust your lying tongue again??! Shut up, that which is my conscience.
So why would I contradict myself? That's easy. Because I am a fickle idiot. Also, from time to time it's really easy to convince myself of certain things (which has led me to much heartache, but that's for another time). And yesterday, I convinced myself that having an outlet to record my often weird, sometimes philosophical, usually rubbish thoughts would help me keep track of what I think about. What makes me, me.
I've always been kind of an oddball. My sense of humour changes and fluctuates by the day. I'm interested in stuff that would mortify the mainstream. I have beliefs that contradict the religion that I hold to, and yet am able to continue living with myself. My plans for the future whip and buck like an angry bull with a crazy cowboy dude trying to hold on to its back for 8 seconds. I can display moments of brilliance in one moment and act like a total ignorant redneck jerk the next. Therefore, I think by recording such thoughts and events that occur, there may be some hope of me perhaps seeing a pattern, a method to my madness if you will. I may be able to understand my personality, and perhaps even plan contingencies.
Second question. Why an online diary? Why allow persons of unknown motivations and behaviour, or (shudder) people I know get a glimpse of what I think about? Wouldn't that give them some kind of hold over you later on? Two main reasons, I think. The first would definitely be vanity. I like to entertain the thought that someone out there may be interested in what I think about or what I have to say. I'm pretty sure I'm completely deluding myself here, but the beauty of the delusion is that I can indulge in it without being shown concrete evidence that I am wrong.
The second reason is linked to the first one. Assuming that someone I know miraculously finds this, then congratulations! You've hit the mother lode. Now you have a rough idea of what goes through my mind when we are sitting around discussing battle tactics for war games, or when you're telling me about your latest squeeze, or when we're driving around to some location and I am uncharacteristically silent throughout the trip. This is my roundabout way of letting people know the stuff that goes through my head and understand me better. So that they can plan contingencies of their own when shit hits the fan. As they will, eventually. Trust me.
Third question. I think I have solved the mystery. Directly over the tear, I can see my pants' pocket lining. Inside that pocket, I keep my bunch of house keys. I surmise that years of hard-edged metal rubbing against cloth (sounds vaguely dirty, I know) while I walk about would eventually wear away the fibres of said cloth, resulting in it becoming threadbare over time and eventually turning into a rip. And since I have no mending skills whatsoever, and it IS a pretty comfortable pair of cargo pants, I'm just going to ignore the rip and pretend it was never there until someone points it out. Which no one has. I'm not sure if they don't out of politeness or that they are secretly laughing at me behind their backs.
White means safe, terracotta red means death
I have this strange habit that surfaces every time I walk across a tiled floor. You know how shopping malls and certain paved sidewalks have different coloured tiles/bricks arranged in a set geometric pattern? When I walk on such floors, I play a little game with myself where I have to step only on certain coloured tiles, and avoid all other tiles like the plague. I try to be as casual as possible when I do this, but occasionally I get stares from people who notice my strides are irregular as I try to step only on the "safe" coloured tiles. Sometimes I switch things around a bit and pretend that I am the knight from chess, and may only step on tiles that form the L shape in relation to the last tile I stepped on. This amuses me to no end, and occasionally lands me in trouble as I concentrate too much on the floor instead of where I am going.
Why do I do this? I don't really know. Theories that have come up include:
- I get bored walking from point A to point B without doing something. Anything. Apparently the act of counting tiles solves this problem.
- I may be unknowingly suffering from a mild form of OCD. I have other idiosyncrasies that are similar to this, but I can't be bothered to recount them now. No, I won't. Go away! What are you, my mommy?
- I'm an idiot. This sounds like the most plausible explanation at the moment.
Note how I cleverly slip into 'ye olde blogging rhythm' even if this is actually my inaugural blog post, ever. I'm so awesome.
Why do I do this? I don't really know. Theories that have come up include:
- I get bored walking from point A to point B without doing something. Anything. Apparently the act of counting tiles solves this problem.
- I may be unknowingly suffering from a mild form of OCD. I have other idiosyncrasies that are similar to this, but I can't be bothered to recount them now. No, I won't. Go away! What are you, my mommy?
- I'm an idiot. This sounds like the most plausible explanation at the moment.
Note how I cleverly slip into 'ye olde blogging rhythm' even if this is actually my inaugural blog post, ever. I'm so awesome.
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